


Night Visitor

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-04
Updated: 2002-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11348280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Real life and fantasy intersect in alarming ways for one of the FBI's finest.





	Night Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Night Visitor

## Night Visitor

#### by Sue

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. 

Title: Night Visitor  
Author: Sue (the Pest)  
Email:   
Rating: NC-17  
Website: The Pest House at http://www.tifling.demon.co.uk/x/gateway.htm 

Summary: Real life and fantasy intersect in alarming ways for one of the FBI's finest. 

* * *

Restraints held him securely on the metallic surgical table. A stinging white light hovered a few feet above him, blinding him to his surroundings. Splayed, X-like, and naked, he was exposed for them all to see. To touch. To use. As he struggled ineffectually against the manacles a human hand fleetingly teased his left nipple before brushing down his flank, thigh and ankle. Feet shuffled, clothing rustled and then a sigh. The scent of musk washed over him, as though the anonymous collaborator was jerking off. Revulsion clashed with erotic fascination. He fought for calm, whilst beneath the surface terror roiled, straining to gain a hookhold. Focussing within, on each individual breath, slower, steadier, he centred his thoughts on one objective. 

To regain control. Control of his own responses. Of himself. 

Without warning, a tentacle slithered across his torso until its warm wet orifice latched on to his cock. Skillfully it sucked until he was engulfed. The pressure tightened and ripples of pleasure spiralled through him. Blood rushed in answer and engorged his traitorous member. His balls climbed high, tight and wanting. He couldn't stop it, wouldn't stop it. Hard, for them. Performing, for them. Capitulation was rapidly approaching, resistance crumbling. 

Something skittered between his spread legs. He sucked in a hasty breath, tried to raise his head and see what was down there. Failed. A greased probing touch pressed between his buttocks. 

Oh shit! "No. Stop!" Laughter came from nearby. 

The grip on his cock tightened. A cool breeze caressed his skin, triggered goosebumps, tingled all over. His attention wavered and his buttocks relaxed. The probing persisted. Entered him. Burrowed deep, self-lubricating, then began to withdraw. Paused. Refilled him. 

All full; fucked and sucked. 

The coordination was telepathically perfect. Screw the alien perverts, he thought, this is absolutely, fucking fantastic. Surrender was never in doubt and came swiftly. Completion followed on its heels. Who cared what their reasons were. Hell, if this was all for a gratuitous jerk-off movie, that was fine with him. Enfolded in the warm bliss of completion, he floated down toward forgetful semi-consciousness. 

Sweat beading on his hot skin, Skinner opened his eyes, crashed back to the reality of his apartment bedroom. Just how sick was this going to get, he wondered. Being made the assistant director responsible for the X Files had changed his life beyond all recognition. Reading Mulder's reports, handling the flack from his superiors, taking Mulder's crap; it had opened up a whole new world of possibility to him. It had completely screwed with his mind; ordinary fantasies were a long distant memory. All he could get off to these days were alien abductions, blood sucking creatures of the night and back alley assignations with Cancerman's henchmen. 

As the cock-shaped dildoe slipped smoothly from his ass, he loosened the grip of the rubber anus, extracting his tender-soft penis from the pump's sleeve. He gathered up his toys and bottle of lube and deposited them on the bathroom counter before returning to his bed. He grabbed a pillow, folded it over and crooked his arm around it as he shuffled his muscular frame until he found a comfortable position within the queen-size bed. 

* * *

A banging commotion interrupted Skinner's gradual descent to sleep. Groggily, he slipped to the edge of the mattress, sat upright and found his footing on the floor. Steadied himself. Listened a moment as he began to waken. Confirmed the reality of the disturbance. It sounded like there was a riot happening right outside his door. 

Padding over to the chair, Skinner pulled on the pair of slacks he'd draped there earlier; he zipped his fly, but left the button undone and the belt dangling free. He headed off into the darkness, barefoot, pausing at the top of the stairs to reconfirm he wasn't dreaming. Someone, or something, was taking quite a beating. Vile spite spewed out, a litany of queer-abuse. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, Skinner soon reached his front door only to be greeted by silence. The view through the peep hole offered no clue. All seemed as it should be. 

Caution was clearly warranted. He went to his desk and retrieved his service weapon from the locked drawer. Checked the action. Loaded. Cocked. Returning to the door, he latched the safety chain and cracked the door an inch or two. A crumpled pile of black leather groaned just a foot away. No one else was in sight. Closing the door, he unlatched the chain, steadied his nerves with a slow deep breath and reopened it. 

The pile took shape, kneeling, and proffered cuffed wrists. Outstretched palms signalled submission. Skinner relaxed, momentarily. That was enough. 

The figure seized the hesitation, lunged at him, startling him backwards into the apartment. Hands clutched at his weapon, knocking it loose from his grip. Aided by momentum, it slid across the floor out of reach under the couch. Ire up, adrenaline activated, Skinner retaliated. Military training kicked in automatically and quickly he had an arm-lock on his assailant's neck. The face staring back from within his constricting grip was strikingly familiar. 

"Krycek?" 

Hands clawed at his arm, trying to loosen his hold; Russian expletives spewed forth. 

"What was that, boy?" Skinner growled, tightening his vice-hold. The captive floundered, all at sea. 

"Tell me something I want to hear," Skinner challenged. 

Quieting, Krycek's struggling abated, "I have information." 

"For me?" 

"Yes." 

"And the price?" 

"My life." 

Skinner thrust Krycek away like some leprous tainted foulness and extracted his leather belt from his trousers, wrapping one end about his fist. "Against the wall. Now!" Keeping Krycek under close scrutiny, Skinner edged backwards and closed the door. 

Mockingly, Krycek silently turned his back to Skinner. 

Leather snapped smartly, connecting with Krycek's ass. Nothing. A second whack. A moment's consideration. Several more blows followed. Another pause as Skinner weighed exactly how many times he was prepared to hit the unresisting man. To his relief, Krycek complied. Faced the wall. Assumed the position. 

Skinner examined his options. How to play this piece of good fortune that had landed in his lap? Caution was the most reasonable gambit; Krycek was a slippery bastard, unpredictable in the extreme. 

Kicking Krycek's feet further apart, Skinner frisked him for concealed weapons. Swiftly, but thoroughly, checked underarms, around Krycek's chest and back. As Skinner's hand moved down and around Krycek's thighs his touch lingered. Not that the exploration was necessary; Krycek wasn't hiding anything under the skin-tight pants he had lately favoured. Skinner wanted to do this, show who had the upper hand, demonstrate with precise clarity who was in charge here. Around Krycek's tight ass and between his thighs to his crotch. Discovered hardness there. Straightening, Skinner reached around and squeezed Krycek's genitals roughly. Krycek's head turned in protest. Provocatively, Skinner licked his cheek. 

Krycek swallowed any objection. 

Skinner smiled. 

"Please?" 

"Please, what?" Skinner stared into crystal green eyes. 

"Please? Let me ..." He didn't get any further as a fist struck viciously into his side, followed by a full body slam against the plaster wall, rattling a nearby bookcase. 

"What was that, boy?" Skinner spat against Krycek's ear. 

"Let me do something for you." The request, whispered, was almost inaudible. 

"What could you do for me, boy?" Skinner stepped back, flexing the strap between his hands, threateningly. 

Green eyes shone, wet with painful tears as rainbows of blue, purple and green decorated Krycek's face. "This." Stepping away from the support of the wall, Krycek straddled Skinner's left leg and rubbed his groin against Skinner's thigh. 

"Please?" begged the lips, red and full. Deftly, Krycek fondled Skinner's balls through the fabric of his pants. 

A juicy succulent, ripe for plucking, thought Skinner as he pressed forward, crushing Krycek against the wall whilst he plundered his mouth with bruising kisses. God, he tasted good, all vodka and cigarettes. Rough trade. Worn around the edges but promising something forbidden. And dirty. 

Shit, this was a dangerous game, Skinner thought, a tiny glimpse of truth breaking through the wash of lust that was swamping his reason. He wanted it though. Who would ever believe Krycek if he told them what they were doing? Liar, traitor, murderer. His word was not to be taken at face value. Ever. 

Skinner smiled, a savage, feral grin. 

"Come with me, boy," he whispered huskily as his fingers curled against Krycek's throat, thumb pressing against the pulse-point. All promise of pain and death. Krycek froze against him, tensing in expectation of his next assault. He grabbed Krycek by the scruff of the neck and dragged him up the stairs. 

At the top step, Krycek tripped, caught his shin hard and sprawled forward. Turning swiftly he came face to face with Skinner's fist. 

"Try it," Skinner encouraged. 

Krycek scuttled back and shook his head, no. 

"Bed." 

Stumbling away from Skinner, regaining his feet, Krycek complied, and lay face down on the bed. 

Quietly, Skinner followed, pausing to admire the view from the doorway. Lust unfurled and called for more. After securing Krycek's cuffs to the head of the bed, Skinner draped himself across Krycek's back, legs astride the prone body. He scrubbed his stubble roughly against Krycek's cheek and inhaled a deep heady breath of intoxicating male musk as he rubbed his groin against Krycek's ass, showing off his own erection. Tonguing the edge of Krycek's ear, leaving a wet trail of saliva, Skinner sucked on the tempting fleshy earlobe. Arching back, settling on his knees, Skinner shoved Krycek's jacket and shirt out of his way, revealing pale translucent skin. Fingertip soft, his touch travelled down the spine enticing a quivering groan. 

Reaching under Krycek's hips, Skinner unzipped him and peeled back clinging black leather, baring the smooth soft silkiness of a ripe ass blemished with smarting red welts. Kissing the cool skin, he trailed his tongue from the small of Krycek's back, between his buttocks to the forbidden entrance hidden there. Parting the way with his hands he teased at the puckered entrance with the tip of his tongue. 

A shudder rippled through Krycek. 

Skinner grinned. His finger delved in, discovered slickness, opened the gate to ecstasy and paused. "Slut," he moaned with raw lust. With his free hand, he unzipped his own trousers, letting the fabric pool around his knees as he manoeuvered so that he knelt between the trembling thighs of his prisoner. All the time his fingers were slipping deeper into well-ploughed territory as Krycek rocked back and forth, facilitating his own fucking. 

Urged on by need, Skinner withdrew his fingers, hauled Krycek on to all fours and sank, cock deep, into an open, begging ass. One long hard thrust. To the hilt. 

"Yes," Krycek sighed, a hint of triumph, of certainty, in his satisfaction. 

"You've not won yet," Skinner whispered, snatching hold of silky hair and jerking back Krycek's head. 

"We'll see," Krycek replied. 

A quickly snatched kiss marked the end of the pleasantries. Skinner took Krycek's leaking cock into his fist and pumped. The hips under him thrust back and forth with deliberate purpose, careening him towards the edge. Aided by the earlier alien completion, Skinner refused to surrender first. Driven on by the need to win, he fisted harder and faster. 

Finally, warmth flooded against Skinner's hand as Krycek capitulated. With evidence of his victory pulsing through his fingers, Skinner allowed himself sweet release, coming in the dark depths of his partner. 

Replete, Skinner slumped forward, then rolled over onto his side, retaining physical contact along the full length of his body, as he ruffled his partner's hair. "Good god, Alex!" 

A satisfaction-flushed face came close and bestowed a kiss softly against each of his eye lids. Skinner caressed Krycek's cheek, tenderly touching the mottled skin, "You're one screwed up motherfucker, you know?" 

"If you say so," Krycek grinned. 

"Come here." Skinner unhooked the cuffs and pulled Krycek into a tight embrace, tangling their legs together. 

"Just don't tell Mulder," whispered Krycek. 

Skinner's face darkened and he rolled on top of his lover, crushing him. 

"Jealous?" 

Skinner battled down the anger that he tasted in his mouth. 

"Don't worry, Walter, all Mulder's up for is beating the crap out of me." Krycek stroked the bruises on his own cheek. "He can't get past ..." 

Skinner's mouth closed over Krycek's, forbidding the words. His powerful arms tightened about his lover, banishing all thought of Mulder from their bed. Hands worked Skinner's cock, fired him up. 

"Fuck me again." Krycek's voice was all lust and want. 

And he did. 

* * *

The morning sun woke Skinner, streaming in through panes of bare glass. He reached instinctively for his companion. 

Gone. Again. The disappointment stung; last night had been the best yet. On the pillow was his reward. Krycek never left his bed in debt. 

Sitting up, a pillow propped behind him, Skinner tipped the manilla envelope, catching the computer disc as it slipped out. More Consortium secrets, no doubt. Yet, there was more. He peered inside the envelope. Unusually, papers were also enclosed. He tugged the snugly fitting pages free. Blank, slick photography stock? He turned them over. 

Gut clenching, his fingers loosed their hold, permitting the pages to flutter free, scattering across the bed and the carpet. Hurriedly, he scurried to the window and brought down the blind with a clatter. His knees gave and he knelt amid the evidence of his own foolhardiness. All about him he saw the images of two men, fucking. Krycek sucking cock. Krycek taking it up the ass. Krycek jerking off, performance style. Krycek, his face smeared with semen, open mouthed, taking more. In all, his own face stared back, ravenous with want. The bloom of obsession, undeniable. 

Slumping back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, he closed his eyes shutting out the truth. It refused to be excluded. Images, nurtured everyday in his imagination, flickered. Each moment with Krycek, relived in his fantasies. He'd permitted them to pervade everything he was until Krycek was bound within all that he was. 

So, Walter, he asked himself, who's the screwed up motherfucker now? 

**THE END**

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Sue 


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